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The underground
My name is _________, and I have never seen the sky. My eyes have never graced the daylight sky, or the velvet black silk of night. The only things I know of the sun, moon, and these, their companions, is in the whispers of the Jumpers. Once, I stumbled upon two boys talking in the street, one said: “What's it like? Could you feel the wind?” to which the other replied: “Yes, it is like the brushing of the finest cloth against the skin.” “What are stars?” I asked the boys, presuming the answerer was a Jumper, they both stared at me, shocked, and ran down the street. I live in Level 12; a bullet hole ridden hell-hole. There are more rats than people, and the closest thing to a sun we have are the yellow sodium lights that dot the sealing, barely casting a ray through the thick smog that blankets the entirety of my world. Level 12 is the industrial district of ______________(city name), filled with pollution and gangs. It is the poorest of all the 13 levels, the richest being Level 0, which is open to the sky, all the rest have sealings, the closest thing to a sun the lights that dot them. My first memory is of my mother singing me a lullaby, accented by the percussion of gunfire and explosions caused by the incessant fighting of the local gangs over territory. It is the only thing I have of my lost parents, who died in the crossfire of fighting gangs, or so I'm told. I have no pictures, no adoption forms, no nothing. And I am beginning to fear that what little I have I have made to fill the void within me. I don't need it anyway. I am stronger than the gangs, they haven't found me yet, and they have been hunting me since my parents were killed, and I'm not dead yet. I live with an old lady who was thrown from level 0. She had spoken out against the government's control and oppression, and had been punished for it, she was thrown to level 12, and has been here ever since. She taught me everything I know, including how to write. In her free-time, she writes stories that I am sure could make even the hardest gang leader cry. She doesn't always think so. If you were to walk the streets of my derelict city, you would feel sadness. Even in the eyes of the gang member about to kill you, there is sadness. The streets crowded with buildings are more barren than a desert, and this overpopulated city is more lifeless than the moon. There is no life in this city, only sadness and fear. This is a story about a war, but not a story of war. There will be death and tragedy. There will be love, laughter, sorrow. This is a story of inspiration, the spark that ignites the powder keg that is within every human being, the initiation of something great. This is a story of life, and it is not for the faint of heart. Category:Fiction